


Wishful Drinking

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Character Study, Coda, Cover Art, Digital Art, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Needles, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, Self-Destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Thoughts, Withdrawal, canon typical Woah There Buddy Don’t Make That Decision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-23 21:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It started with Dean drinking on a case.It escalated to Dean drinking everywhere.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82
Collections: anonymous





	1. Tequila Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song Wishful Drinking by Tessa Violet. Listen to it whilst reading for optimal feels.  
This is a 15x04 Coda. It was written before "Proverbs 17:3".

"You need to stop."

Yeah, right. He wasn't gonna stop.

Sam oughta know by now that asking him to stop would do the _exact_ opposite. 

"Dean, please." 

Dean considered asking if Sam wanted a "knuckle sandwich with extra meat man bacon". But he stopped himself.

Joking about being the "meat man" was only funny the first fifty times. Honestly, he was over it. But it made Sam give him that exasperation frown he'd perfected over the years. The one Dean strived to get because it meant he'd been doing his job as an annoying older brother right. So, he kept-on-keeping-on. Besides, the case with the vampire had been exhausting. And it didn't exactly turn out kosher. But Dean figured it was what they needed. To see that they were making a difference. Chuck was gone. But the world kept turning. Maybe Sam couldn't move on. But Dean could. 

Kicking back a flask was unrelated to his coping, but it sure as fuck didn't hurt.

The last time he'd drank like this on the job was back when Castiel exploded leviathans in the lake. 

And he'd killed that monster friend of Sam's. Amy Pond. With the blond hair. And lifeless eyes—at least, that's how he remembered them. 

Bobby was also gone.

Maybe things weren't as messed up now. Chuck fucked them. But he still had his brother on his side. Castiel was in the wind. But the pain of losing Bobby had numbed over the years. Especially considering Bobby from the apocalypse world set up shop and tried dating their mom. Not that it tarnished Bobby's memory. It was just weird. And as far as he knew, the thing got called off when John made a surprise appearance. Not that any of that mattered now. Considering Mary was gone. His insides ached at the thought, so he took another sip of his drink and compartmentalized it away.

It wasn't like he had a problem. He was just reverting. And if downing a flask during a hunt turned into more regular day-drinking and hiding away in the garage to escape Sam's prying eyes as he swallowed down bourbon, then he was done analyzing his own behavior. Really, he'd stopped giving a fuck back in the crypt. Sam's pep talk helped. But the hopelessness was still there. Drinking helped _more_. And he wasn't going to look a gift horse in its mouth or whatever the saying was.

"Going to your room doesn't mean I don't know what you're doing. . ."

Dean swallowed another gulp of whiskey, walking to his room without giving Sammy any indication he'd heard him. It didn't burn. It just slid down his throat, as easy as water and as effortless as breathing. But his teeth ached. It's been weeks, maybe months since he'd brushed them. There was a molar in the back right that throbbed if he tongued it. Definitely a cavity. He couldn't find it in him to care. He just took another sip of his drink, letting it coat the inside of his mouth and settle heavily in the pit of his empty stomach.

If he could run away from his hurt, he would. But this was easier. Well, nothing was easy. But this was something. It was all he had really. Since Chuck blew open Hell, left them high and dry, murdered Jack, and fucked up everything—Rowena was just the icing on top.

Dean never liked her. Not really. She was a tolerance. Like her son. But he'd respected her. And he knew Sam felt something fond of the witch. So she was frosting. Or a maraschino cherry. On top of a shitty, horrible, dry-ass cake. Like the kind people buy at Kroger's. Like Lisa used to get for Ben's birthdays. They'd stick to the roof of your mouth. He felt some bile rise in his throat just thinking about it. Dean was a pieman, sure, but he wouldn't say no to some cake. Unless it was _that_ cake. And that was what Chuck was serving. 

Did that excuse Dean from acting like a complete dickhead? Dean took another sip. Sam'd probably say no. But Sam was a no-good dirty traitor. The kid liked to disagree with Dean just for fuck's sake most of the time. So his opinion was biased. Castiel would probably say no, too, though. And that was telling in its own right. Dean wondered if he'd think he was a piece of shit if he wasn't standing in his own shoes.

Well, sitting. And his shoes were thrown off in the corner of his room. He was kinda just lounging on his bed, drinking a six-pack, ruminating on the events that'd happened since Chuck went Thanos on their asses. Was that an insult to Thanos? The dude thought he was doing the right thing. That he was the hero. Chuck was just an asshole. Like Dean. Dean finished off his whiskey. The whole bottle. He sighed, tossing it across the room and watching it smash on the wall. He started in on the beer. 

Maybe if he drank enough he could drown. That'd be something. It'd be like he was back to being Michael's vessel. That seemed so far away now. Michael. Their Michael. The Apocolypse. Sam drinking blood. Their mom dying to yellow eyes. That was all orchestrated by Chuck. The idea made him sick. Dean chugged the bottle. He threw it. Like a bullseye. Directly on the wall where the other bottle had smashed. Maybe if he made enough noise, Sam'd hear it. Then both of them would be up all night. Dean by his mind. Sam by his wasted brother being an asshole. Castiel was awake too, Dean realized. The angel didn't sleep if he didn't want to. All three of them were awake now. 

"I once was blind but now I see," Dean sang sarcastically, "We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise—eat a dick, Chuck Almighty."

He downed the other five bottles. Thankfully, he passed out before he could get up and drive to Lebanon to get some more.

"Dean," Sam knocked on his door, "Dean, it's 5 PM."

He groaned, head pounding. His fingers were numb. "Go away."

"Um," Sam hesitated, continuing warily, "I'm glad you didn't choke on your vomit. Or cut yourself on broken glass."

"I said go the fuck away," Dean raised his voice, making everything shake like an earthquake. "Fuckin' scram, Sammy."

Sam whispered, "You're just turning into dad." Then Dean was left alone.

The numbness spread up his knuckles and his hands and arms and suddenly he felt nothing. Perfect.

Another day, another drink. He decided to move the party elsewhere than his room. It was getting boring. Plus, it was pretty filthy. With broken glass. Vomit. Other shit. But Dean finally took a shower. He figured that as long as he was out, he might as well try and get laid. His teeth remained unbrushed. But that way another mountain. Besides, he didn't think he was going to be kissing anyone tonight. Maybe some oral. But some fuzzy teeth wouldn't be a deal-breaker. He sipped on some bourbon. Lebanon was a nice little town. And Dean recognized faces. But his eyes caught on a man down the bar away. 

He had gray at his temples. These scarred knuckles. A heavyset brow. And some nice blue eyes. 

Their eyes caught. Yeah, Dean was in the mood to get fucked.

He batted his lashes prettily.

The other man sat up straighter, interest pique.

He stood up, swaggerin' down, and sitting on the stool beside Dean.

"I saw you looking at me."

No shit. Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Wanna buy me a drink?"

The man nodded, turning to the bartender—who looked equally unimpressed with Dean's "dates" attitude as he was swiftly becoming—and made a gesture with his hand, "Another round, sir." Then the man turned back to Dean, giving him his full attention, a little too reminiscent of another blue-eyed guy Dean knew. But Dean downed the glass of whiskey as soon as it was sat down in from of him to get rid of those pesky thoughts. He didn't want to think about anything else other than what was happening here and now. 

"What's your name?"

"Dean."

"Like James Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean wished he'd asked for a double right about now. "And you?"

"Alan. . . Like Alan Parrish. . . From Jumanji."

Fuck. If only this bastard hadn't opened his mouth.

Dean hummed.

"You got a pretty mouth," Alan offered when he noticed Dean had nothing else.

Okay, he could work with that. "You've got a nice set of eyes, yourself."

The guy blinked, guffawing, poking his finger right into his eye and letting it rest on the goddamn ball.

Dean watched, horror mixed with confusion.

"They're contacts, man," The guy finally said, pulling his finger back and showing something resting on the pad. It was an icy blue contact. "I bought them on Amazon. Only $9.99 plus free shipping. If you don't have prime, don't talk to me, y'know?"

"Oh, wow," Dean said slowly, pretending like this was normal. "So, you have brown eyes because you're full of shit?"

It was meant to be a joke. A poorly executed one. But Dean figured he'd get a pitty laugh at least. 

No, Alan just stared at him. One brown eye. One blue. "Uh, yeah. My real eye color is brown," He said seriously.

"And your knuckles, are those scars fake, too?" Dean asked, half-kidding, half-serious.

Alan looked down at his hands, "Oh, I got 'em from my day job. See, I crack lobsters and those little guys pinch!"

Dean would've gone through with it. He really would've. But Alan _had _to be a massive weirdo. Dean just wanted to fuck. He didn't want to be turned into a skin lampshade by Buffalo Bill 2.0. Maybe he should've gone to Wichita or Kansas City? Somewhere that wasn't full of backward bumpkins that shared the same water hole as the rest of the townsfolk.

"Okay," Dean stood up, tossing down some big bills, "I'm heading out, Jackson. Don't wait up."

The bartender waved, "Seeya, Campbell. Tell your brother to swing by soon."

Alan seemed upset they knew each other. 

But Dean wasn't sticking around to find out if that upset tantamount to a fist. A lobster pinched fist.

On the drive home, he considered pulling over, the road blurring a little too much thanks to those drinks. But there wasn't anyone else on this old country road but himself. And as long as he wasn't endangering some sweet Montana family lost in backwoods Kansas, then Dean didn't care if he drove headfirst into an oak. Or a silo, considering the miles and miles of farmland and the absence of trees surrounding the bunker. So, he just drove. Baby purred. And he drove.

Sam was waiting up when he stumbled in from the garage.

Like some '50s housewife, curlers in her hair, green face mask. Dean nearly giggled at the thought.

"Did you drive like this?" Sam asked with a tight mouth.

He was actually in his pajamas. A flannel and some sweats. Damn, Dean wanted to be in some sweats too.

"Don't worry, Lucy," Dean said with his best Ricky Ricardo impersonation—making Sam cringe, "I'm home."

"I swear to God, Dean. . ." Sam cut himself off, realizing what he said.

They both were quiet for a few moments.

"Yeah," Dean hiccuped, rubbing his nose, "Goodnight."

He went to his bedroom, drunk the bottle of tequila he'd left beside his bed on the floor, and dozed off.

"I'm calling Cas."

"Go ahead." He got sick of whiskey. The sight of it churned his stomach. So, he graduated to Vodka. "He won't answer."

Sam's glare burned the back of his neck. "Because you ran him off?"

Dean shrugged.

"What happened after Rowena, Dean?"

He shrugged again.

Sam exhaled. "It's been months. We beat the last apocalypse. It's been quiet."

"Yeah, we won."

"But you're not acting like we did."

"I'm acting pretty much exactly like we did. Because this is all that's left, Sam."

"I'm here, Dean. It's not just you. Jack's gone. Mom's gone. And that sucks. But Cas doesn't have to be."

"I want him gone."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I said I did. And I do. I don't want him around. I'd rather kill myself than see his fucking face."

Sam was quiet. "Do you really mean that?"

Dean threw the vodka. It crashed against a shelf of books. Dean said, "Yes."

"Okay," Sam said slowly, "But you're killing yourself this way, too."

"I'm going to my room."

It'd been four months since Castiel left. Dean hadn't been keeping track. But Rowena died in October. And he was pretty sure the cupcake Sam gave him a few days ago was for his birthday. He had a beard now. Not like Sam's pansy-ass grief beard. More manly and full. Sam scoffed every time he saw it. And it almost felt like things were normal between them. 

He lived in a state of constant drunkness. It was great. 

He didn't have to think about Chuck. Or Jack. Or Mom. Or Castiel.

He just got to drink. And watch Doctor Sexy. And masturbate. It was pretty much a nice setup. 

And when he'd start throwing up all his insides, or have a nightmare, or scare Sam with the way he'd start getting violent—he'd drink more.

He'd been fucked by a few Alans since he'd turned the original down. Desperation was quite a motivation. But blue eyes, sharp jaws, and nice brown hair. . . it was kryptonite to drunk Dean. And since he was always drunk, he was always giving in to the easy-going smiles. He couldn't complain, especially when they ate him out and left a nice stubble burn on his cheeks. Fuck, he loved that. He also fucked some women. But that was less exciting. Mostly, unless they were supernaturally beautiful, he'd pick up chicks that looked strong. If they could hold him down, he wanted to go a few rounds. And if they had blue eyes? That was a bonus.

Sam knew about it all. It was kinda hard to keep quiet. Especially when he tried to bring home one of his conquests to the bunker. That crescendoed into quite the screaming match. Sam had been pissed for weeks. He even threatened to call Castiel again. To which Dean voiced his uncaring. Sam could leave hundreds of voicemails. Sam could pray to Castiel. But Dean knew the only way Castiel would come back was if Dean reached out. And he was never going to do that. Never.

"What did you say to him, Dean?" Sam asked one night when Dean was so drunk that he was drooling a little bit. "Cas wouldn't leave like this unless. . . unless you said something. What did you say?"

"The truth," Dean slurred.

And that was the extent of the conversation.

Dean was walking into the map room one day when he heard a familiar voice. He froze.

"Dean's right, Sam," Castiel's voice was almost weepy through the phone speaker. "It's my fault she's dead."

"Welcome to the club," Sam said back unwaveringly, "It's my fault Azazel killed her."

"Not directly."

"Exactly. I didn't hold a knife to her throat, Cas. Neither did you," Sam said softly, "You just didn't tell us about a fucking snake. Honestly, I don't blame you. Or Jack. Or anyone. It was just a shitty situation. Maybe if Mom had seen the signs of Jack having a panic attack. . . But I can't even _think_ about that. What-ifs aren't healthy. And everything happened already. We can't change that."

"Thank you, Sam."

"If Dean can forgive me for indirectly being the reason Mom was burned up, then he can learn to forgive you."

Dean swallowed, turning on his heel to go back to his room. Time to break the seal on the spiked eggnog.

It took six months for things to finally come to ahead. With April showers falling outside the bunker. Such a contrast to the falling leaves of October. When this mess all started. Dean had too much to drink. Which was laughable. But somehow he'd managed to pass over the threshold he didn't know was still there. And, to make a long story short, he had to get his stomach pumped. It wasn't the first time, believe it or not, that he had to get this done. When he was sixteen and an idiot, he figured drinking a bottle of John's stash would be easy. Flash forward to him in the ER, scared out of his goddamn mind, with an angry John and a weepy Sammy—Dean wasn't that surprised to find that the second time around was an almost identical experience.

Sam was sitting next to him, face pinched, texting on his phone. 

Dean wanted to ask what had happened, the last thing he'd remembered was downing his fifth bottle of tequila, but the fucking tube down his throat made it impossible to say anything other than, "Arghh. . ."

Eyes springing open, Sam reached out and pressed the call button on the side of his bed, reaching out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Hey, man! Are you alright?"

His eyes were watering. "Arghh," He repeated, more urgently.

A nurse ran in a second later, coming over with a needle. "Honey, you need to calm down. Or I'll have to sedate you."

He tried to calm his beating heart but the spike of adrenaline that'd hit him when he woke up was too overbearing. 

"Calm down, Dean," Sam said, probably seeing the panic creep into his wide eyes, "You're safe."

Dean swallowed around the hose in his throat and tried to breathe evenly through his nose.

Eventually, the nurse backed off with the needle. "Good, honey. I'll go get the doctor to remove the trach tube." 

Dean just laid there, taking in the warmth of the sun peaking in through the bedside window and wondering why in the fuck he had a breathing tube down his throat. Did he drink so much they had to put him on a respirator? Did he slip into a coma? They obviously had to do something. His skin felt tight on his body. That feeling he got right after fighting a nest of vampires. Or a harem of demons. All that gore seeping into his pores. And he'd try to scrub himself clean in the shower but all he'd end up doing was leaving behind pink skin and irritation.

They made him drink two cups of water after the tube was removed. His throat still felt like a hot fire poker had been shoved down it. The doctor said he'd prescribe some morphine after Dean went through his saline bag. And that was when he finally noticed the IV and needle sticking out of the back of his hand. He asked how long he'd been out.

"We should check for any brain damage first," The doctor said charmingly. "Do you know who the president is?"

"I gotta have brain damage, Doc. Donald Trump can't be president."

"That joke was funny the first ten thousand times I heard it, Mr. Fett."

After the rudimentary memory questions were asked, and Dean's jokes were scrutinized, the doctor informed him he'd been in a barbiturate-induced coma for 72 hours. Sam grimaced at the number and grumbled, "But you've been out for five days. They stopped giving you knock-out drugs days ago." The doctor interjected immediately, explaining why Dean took so long to wake up and smiling charmingly at both of them whilst gesturing, totally enraptured, with his hands. Apparently, oversleeping your medically induced coma was normal. Like sleeping through your alarm clock. 

As soon as the room was clear of civilians, Dean turned to Sam and asked, "Did you really tell them my name was Boba Fett?"

"Did you really drink so goddamn much that I had to rush you to the ER and where you had your stomach fucking pumped?"

That filled in a lot of holes, actually. Dean said, "You remember more than I do."

"I remember you going into shock," Sam scowled at him, "And I had to put you on your side. But you just kept vomiting."

"Thanks for taking one for the team, Sammy."

Sam just looked at him, his face caught in a mixture of disbelief and pity. "Dean, you have a problem."

Dean snorted. "Dude—"

"Shut up," Sam's voice dropped into a dangerous whisper, "I'm your brother. Don't bullshit me."

"I don't have a problem," Dean managed to get out before Sam started ranting.

"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Dean. You need to stop drinking. That's the bottom line. Your liver is fucked. If it fails right now, they won't give you a transplant since it's damage is self-inflicted and you're still addicted to alcohol. Why would they waste an organ donation on someone that'd just fuck it up? I see that expression, Dean. Yes. You're addicted. I won't listen to your excuses. You've spent the better part of the past six months living like its Woodstock. It's worse than the year before you went to hell. It's worse than when Cas was left in purgatory. It's worse than when you had the mark. You're an alcoholic, Dean," Sam took a deep breath, "And I _need_ to hear you admit that you have a problem."

"You need to, huh?" 

"The last half-year has been pretty damn traumatic. At least on my end. So, stop gaslighting me and fucking admit it."

"It's not a problem if I don't wanna stop."

Sam looked at him, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. "Dean. . ."

"Don't call it a problem, Sam. Don't call me an alcoholic. Or an addict. Just don't. It's all I've got."

Sam didn't have anything to say to that.

So they just sat in silence.

Dean had to spend two more days in the hospital. Mostly observation, for his vitals and to make sure he was out of the woods. There was also the fact that he'd just woken up from a five-day coma. His nurse also tried to explain calmly to him that they had to ease him back onto solid foods. He'd been fed solely with a feeding tube and it would make him sick if he just started eating the country fried stake the cafeteria was serving for dinner. So Dean drank a smoothie and choked down green jello on night one. On night two, he ate some chicken noodle soup and nearly dropped the spoon from how bad the withdrawal was shaking his fingers. Cold turkey was a bitch. The doctor recommended rehab but Dean shut that down pronto. He'd rather just deal with the shakes now and then down a couple of wine coolers at home. Self-medication was in his future. He could tell Sam knew what he was plotting. But for some reason, the Sasquatch didn't narc him out.

On the day he was finally released, they gave him some generic sweatpants and a Hanes long-sleeved shirt. The clothes he'd worn to the ER were trashed. Bye-bye Zeppelin t-shirt and loose-fitting pajama pants—he actually felt a little depressed about the shirt considering he had the thing for over twenty years. But he was willing to keep his trap shut if it meant he'd get the hell outta dodge quicker. He didn't even complain when the nurse said she had to cart him out of the hospital with a wheelchair. He kept his snide remarks to himself.

Sam drove the Impala to the bunker, not speaking the entire ride, blasting Johnny Cash—it was no Led Zeppelin, but _Apache Tears_ was a banger, so Dean kept his silent oath of not saying shit.

When they pulled into the garage, Dean reached over to open the door. But Sam stopped him. "Wait, Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean pulled up short. He really wanted to get back to his room, drink something to ease the shakes. So, when Sam just sat there, Dean got impatient, "What's up, Sandman?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said fingers flexing on Baby's wheel, "Okay?"

"Okay?" Dean repeated, confused.

"I'm dropping you off," Sam continued, "And I'll be back on Monday."

Dean felt his stomach swoop. "Are you giving up on me, Sammy?" He regretted saying that as soon as it came out of his mouth, too needy and pitiful for the level of detached cool he was aiming for, "I mean, you finally coming to your senses?"

Sam didn't bother looking at him. "You're gonna be pissed off and I wanna wait till things cool down, is all."

"Excuse me?" Dean crossed his arms, plastic hospital bracelet scratching him, "I'm gonna be pissed if you keep being vague."

"Just. . ." Sam sighed, "Go do what I know you've been planning on doing since you woke up."

Dean felt some guilt bubble-up. "Sam. . ."

"You thought I didn't know?" Sam finally looked at him, heavy and sad, "I'm your brother. I know you better than the back of my own hand."

"Thankfully not the palm," Dean tried to joke, bumbling about to ease the tension.

"I'm heading out for a few days," Sam said then. "And we'll talk properly when I get back."

"What're you gonna do?"

"Hunt, maybe. Troll some bars. Play pool with douchebags. I don't know." Sam looked thoughtful, "It won't exactly be a Malabo _vacay_."

"Okay," Dean hesitated, reaching for the handle again, "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to get dead," He said sincerely.

Sam smiled faintly, "Yeah, you too."

And then, with his feet firmly planted on the concrete of the bunker's garage, Sam sped off.

Dean looked down and cracked a smile. The nerd left skid marks. Fuckin' dork. Dean laughed a little. It sounded weird coming from his mouth. He hadn't done it in months. It was kinda like rebooting a computer. Everything felt slow afterward. He rubbed the corners of his mouth in consideration. They'd pulled painfully at being opened so wide. Damn. It really _had_ been a while. He shook his head. Then, he turned to head inside.

He had to cut through the war room to get to his bedroom. He'd decided somewhere between the pseudo-checkpoint and his final destination that he'd put off the binge drinking till he could actually hold his head up. Maybe the whole "stomach pumping" thing had been a wake-up call. Maybe it'd been Sam ditching him. Whatever it was, Dean wasn't really in the mood anymore to puke his guts out. That felt like an accomplishment even though it shouldn't have been. Damn, he needed higher standards or something.

Turning into the war room, Dean froze.

Because sitting at the table, looking as pretty as a picture, was the love of his life.

"Cas. . ." Dean blinked, not believing his own eyes. "What. . ."

"Hello, Dean."

Castiel attempted to smile at him, hair a little longer than the last time Dean'd seen him and more wrinkles laying in the corners of his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" He finally managed a sentence.

"Sam called it a _last-ditch effort_."

Dean suddenly understood. "This is why he left, huh?"

"I suppose," Castiel said, a little fidgety, "Even though I suggested his mediation, he insisted that he shouldn't be here for the blow-up."

"Blow-up," Dean scoffed, irritation settling under his skin, "What's he think I'm gonna do? Kill you? Kill _myself_?"

Castiel shrugged. "It was implied that you aren't exactly yourself these days."

"Fuck that," Dean exhaled, scratching his arms raw, "I'm more _me_ than ever."

"I'm inclined to believe that."

And Dean figured that was an indirect _fuck you_.

"So, what? You're suddenly here because Sam asked? What? The last six months were bullshit? Are we supposed to pretend like it didn't happen? Why now?"

"I said I was moving on," Castiel abruptly looked tired, like a minimum of no sleep was finally weighing on him, dark circles under his eyes becoming more pronounced, "You didn't stop me. I'm here because my friend asked me to be. He implied that you were on a self-destructive spiral and that my presence would help remedy that. The last six months were confusing and draining. It's a period of my life that I'll always grasp for memories of loneliness and disaffection. Of course, I couldn't forget it. Or pretend like it didn't happen. Just like I can't pretend that we did not part as friends. Which was why I was confused about Sam's request. But I still came. Because even though you cast me aside, I'm still here."

Dean swallowed. "Uh, wow, dude. That was a pretty hefty speech."

"I practiced some of it," Castiel admitted.

He laughed a sharp guffaw. "Of course, you did."

Then they were alone with each other and silence. It felt like a pressure had built up and was slowly compressing his chest.

"For what it's worth, I'm not gonna kill you," Dean finally said, "Or myself."

Castiel nodded. "Thank you."

How absurd was that? Castiel said _thank you_ because Dean wasn't going to kill him. So fucking absurd.

Dean chose to ignore it.

"I was angry," He explained, feeling the need to, "And you were just. . . there."

"I was convenient," Castiel inferred.

"I guess," Dean exhaled through his nose, "That sounds fucking awful, man. But it's true."

"Your mom died, Dean," Castiel said slowly, "And Jack died, so you couldn't put your anger on him. And Chuck flipped the world upside down. Matters became complicated. And confusing. I'm not surprised our ranks parted. It seems likely that other issues would've arisen to propel us apart. But I swear, Dean if I could do it over. . . I would never have kept anything from you."

"I know, Cas." And he _did_. But was that enough? "I'm still angry."

Castiel stood up. The fact that he wasn't wearing his trenchcoat finally became apparent. "I know you are."

Dean squirmed as Castiel stepped closer. "Did you know I just came from the hospital?"

"Sam mentioned it," Castiel said, "Alchohol poison, correct?"

"Yeah," Dean said, embarrassed in a way he thought he'd never feel again, "And I was gonna go get wasted again."

Castiel reached his hand out, connecting their fingers, speaking firmly, "Dean, you know I can't allow you to do that."

Dean frowned. "What?"

"I won’t turn my back on you," Castiel answered, "But I’m not about to stand idly by and watch what you kill yourself."

A mixture of affection and annoyance expanded in his chest, tingling down his arms and into his fingertips—ending where their skin was touching.

Dean didn't know what to say. 

Castiel seemed to sense that, squeezing his fingers and continuing, "I needed to get away before. To realize I wasn't a burden for you. To grow my self-confidence. And now, that I've reached a healthy equilibrium with myself, I've decided that my new mission is to help _you_ heal. You might not want my help. You might buck wildly against it. You might want Sam's guidance instead. But I know that my purpose here and now is to aid you in whatever way is most fit."

"I'm not some fixer-upper," Dean said, defensive.

"Yes, I'm aware you're not a house."

Dean couldn't help himself. He laughed. And he moved his hand to fully connect their palms. "Dude, this is going way too fast."

"How can I slow it down? Go at a pace comfortable to you?" Castiel asked easily.

"I dunno. I just realized minutes ago that I wasn't gonna drink the beer by my nightstand," Dean tried to continue his train of thought but he kept getting distracted by the feel of Castiel's hand in his. Their fingers were interlocked. It felt so easy yet hard at the same time. "That I wasn't gonna go fuck up what all that time spent in the hospital did. And I decided that _before_ I saw you. Now. . . I don't know."

"Did I help you or did I hinder you?" 

Dean looked down at their hands, "Well, it depends."

"On?"

"I love you, dude," Dean blurted out.

The compression on his chest evaporated, replaced with an icy chill down his spine. 

Castiel let go of his hand, "Oh."

"Yeah."

"How does that correlate?" 

Dean sighed, throwing his hands up, "I just confessed something _pretty_ important. Ain't you gonna say something back?"

"Like what?"

"Check yes or no, Cas," Dean hinted, raising an eyebrow and bitting out, "You feel the same or not?"

"Dean," Castiel chided, "I love you more than anything or anyone else."

"Cool," Dean said in wonder. "I mean, yeah. Awesome."

"But I'd rather talk about your alcoholism—"

"Can we not?" Dean nearly whined. "I'm not gonna relapse. I mean, I'm shaking like an earthquake. But I just went eight days cold turkey. I say that's the beginning of a healthy conversion."

"It's surely the beginning," Castiel observed. "But we need to make sure you don't regress."

"I have motivation not to," Dean said, bothered at the lack of faith that was being displayed against him (even if he deserved it), "Sam leaving kinda kicked my ass. And the fact that I had to get my stomach pumped was a major factor. And then you're here. And apparently you love me after everything. So, believe me, Cas, I'm fucking motivated."

"Good," Castiel said, "That's step one."

Dean groaned, "Fine, we'll do fucking AA and pray to Jesus and Chuck Almighty that I'll stop getting shit-faced."

"No," Castiel said heavily, "We'll work on healthy coping skills. You can't turn to booze every time something goes wrong."

"Well, what can I tell ya', I grew up under the John Winchester approach to emotional baggage," He joked.

Castiel suddenly pulled him into a hug, saying into his neck, "Sam and I talked about this already. And we both came to the same conclusion. First, we're going to throw out all the alcohol in the bunker. All of it. Then, we're going to make sure you can't get ahold of it. By spell or some other way. Apparently Sam started practicing witch-craft after Rowena passed and he's gotten to the point where he thinks he can perform something of this caliber. Also, one of us will be with you at all times. As emotional support, a caring hand, or whatever you need—we'll give you privacy when you need it, Dean. But we won't let you regress. I swear to you, we'll help you get better."

"So, you'll be my watchdogs, huh?" He did _not_ like the sound of that. 

"We'll be your support system."

Dean tightened his arms around Castiel's waist. "Sounds more like chaperones, but whatever."

"I'll admit, we're both new to this whole. . . beneficence," Castiel pulled back and gestured with a hand-wave, "But we're determined."

"I know," Dean pulled him back so they were chest-to-chest, "I appreciate both of you. And I appreciate that I have the privilege of magic. Guys like dad or Joe Shmoe civilians, they don't have that luxury. If they wanted to quit, they'd have to resist by sheer will power. But I have supernatural options. And I have you and Sammy. Some people have no one. I'm just a little overwhelmed here, Cas. It feels like too much. And too fast. And I'm kinda spiraling."

"Dean," Castiel drew back, catching Dean's face in his hands, "I love you. I'm here for you. And, if you'll allow it, I'd like to kiss you."

"Oh, I'll allow it."

Castiel leaned forward. Dean closed his eyes. And then. . .

. . . his nose got kissed.

Dean slowly opened his eyes, "Um, is that it?"

Castiel had the nerve to look sheepish. "There was another condition Sam and I discussed beforehand—another sort of motivation if you will. I'll kiss you on your lips after you've gone a month without drinking."

Dean could not believe what he was hearing. "Are you serious?"

"I know ultimatums are bad," Castiel rushed to clarify, "But this is less that and more—"

"Blackmail?" Dean proposed.

Castiel huffed, "I was going to say a reward for accomplishing a goal. Maybe if you go two months we can graduate to french-kissing."

Who even said french-kissing, anymore? Dean exclaimed, "Dude, by that rate, I'll be senile before we get to the good shit!"

"No more than a year, Drama queen," Castiel said with an eye roll. "And good things come to those who wait."

"You're lucky I love you," Dean said indignantly. "Like, _so_ lucky."

"I know." Castiel smiled shyly at him.

"I'm lucky, too," Dean said hurriedly before he could chicken out.

Castiel kissed his nose again. 


	2. The Red Badge of Liquid Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a nice little time stamp for everyone that wanted more! Thank you! We figured you deserved a little fluff after the roller coaster of the last part. This is the end, folks!  
Oh, and we added Eileen because we love her! Pretend that sometime during those six months, Sam went to Rowena's apartment and everything happened accordingly with Eileen. Dean just didn't care enough to pay attention.

"You almost had sex with a guy that referenced Jumanji?" Sam choked out a laugh, hair pulled back in a pony-tail.

Eileen snorted, taking it a step further, "You almost had sex with a guy named Alan?"

"Alan is a perfectly respectable name," Dean defended.

Castiel squeezed his knee, "I'm sure it is, honey."

"Y'all are bigots against Alans," He huffed, secretly enjoying the teasing. It felt so damn normal. Not even Chuck could ruin this.

"Listen," Sam held up his hands in surrender, "I'm not saying you were desperate during those six months, but you were _so_ fucking desperate."

Dean's stomach didn't even flip at the mention of that half-year. No, he was just so content. Everything was perfect.

"I can't believe he was wearing contacts!" Eileen said, turning to Sam and saying whilst signing, "And the lobsters!"

"You really know how to pick 'em," Sam said, looking at Castiel and adding, "No offense, Cas."

Castiel looked at Dean, "I did happen to notice one thing whilst you were describing this Alan. . ."

"What?" Dean grinned.

"Blue eyes, stubble, brown hair," Castiel listed off. "You really have a type, don't you?"

Sam and Eileen went, "Oooooo—" And smacked their hands over their mouths like Castiel just delivered a painful roast.

Dean just nodded, "Yep. Goofballs are my type. Dorks, too. And apparently, if Alan is a contender, weirdos."

"What am I?" Castiel asked fondly. 

"You're a goofy, dorky weirdo," Dean said. "That I love."

Sam fake-gagged, "Alright, time to get out of here before they start making out."

"Yeah," Eileen said, standing up, "That's a good idea, though. Let's go make out, too."

It was Dean's turn to dry-heave. But instead, he just smiled. "I'm happy."

Sam paused, looking at him, "Yeah?"

Dean exhaled and held Castiel's hand, "I know it's sappy, but this might be the happiest moment of my life."

Castiel kissed him firmly. "It's not sappy. It's exactly what we've been working towards. I'm so proud of you, Dean."

"Me too," Sam said.

"Yeah," Eileen chimes in, pushing some loose hair behind her ear, "I know you weren't exactly in the right mind when I first came back, but since then, I've enjoyed every moment here in the bunker. It really feels like a dream come true. After being trapped in Hell for all those years. . . Well, I just can't explain how much I appreciate all of you. Sam for being so nice. Dean for being so accepting. Cas for treating me like I've been here all along. It's just so perfect."

"I agree," Dean said, "Thank you all for helping me with my. . . addiction."

Sam nudged him, "We're always here for you, Dean."

"We are," Eileen agreed.

"I wish Jack was here," Castiel said, a little melancholy.

"And we wish Mom was," Sam acknowledged.

And with those obligatory things out of the way, the room relaxed further into the nice toasty feeling of love that'd settled around them.

"I can't believe Chuck is allowing us to be so happy," Dean said, voicing some of his fears.

"He's probably building us up to put us down," Sam agreed, voice settling into a hard determined sort of anger, "But y'know what? Fuck him. He's gone. I'm not letting him screw with us anymore. I got Eileen back. She's my win. And he had no part in that. It was all thanks to Rowena. And now? Now we know that not everything that happens is in his intended design. We can beat him. If he comes knocking? Well, we'll knock right back."

Dean smiled, "You're right, Sammy."

"Yes," Castiel said.

"I'll fight," Eileen held Sam's hand. "I know it's not my fight. . . but I _will_."

"Thank you," Dean said, heartfelt.

"Of course," She nodded, "What else is family for?"

Castiel kissed him suddenly.

Then he kissed his nose.

"Oh, you tease," Dean laughed a little, pressing back in for another mouth-kiss. 

"We'll leave you to _whatever_ it is you're doing," Sam said, half-amused, half-exasperated.

Eileen just chuckled. "If you need us, we'll be in Sam's room." Then she winked.

Dean smirked, giving Sam a thumbs up.

Finally alone, Castiel whispered to him, "It's been three months since you've had a drink. . ."

"Yeah," Dean swallowed with a dry mouth. "What's my next reward?"

"I was thinking we'd go back to your room and I'd suck your cock."

"Yeah," Dean nearly whined, "That sounds like a solid plan. . ."

"I love you," Castiel said then, petting his nape.

"I love you."

"Let's go," Castiel hauled him up, "Race you?"

"Oh, you're on holy-roller!"

And then they sprinted to Dean's room. Like five-year-olds. It's so childlike and freeing, it made his heart soar. Shucking off clothes, giggling, and falling onto the bed. Dean was only a little out of breath, but that changed as soon as he got swallowed down Castiel's throat. He whined and squirmed, and just relished at the moment. He loved Castiel so fucking much. And everything was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment and leave a kudos if you liked it!


End file.
